identical.
And itâs this that preoccupies me: the connectivity of all living things, past and present. What is passed on? Is this record all that remains after weâre gone, or is there something more?
And can a single narrativeâone single truthâencompass all the forces at work in our lives?
Â
7.
Â
On a Tuesday morning, my father goes to work. He arrives, as he always does, on the E train, which has a stop in the concourse beneath his building. He goes up to the trading floor, boots the computers, and heads to his office in the next building.
He is many floors above the city when a loud seismic boom draws people away from their desks and into doorways. He makes his way to a window of his office building and sees that the adjacent building, its twin, is swaying.
He doesnât know what has happened, but thinking only of the chaos and traffic that will ensue, he and a friend ignore the order to stay put and make the decision to leave. Outside he watches an airplane disappear inside a tower of steel. Around him, clusters of people areâas he isâhands-over-mouth transfixed, stunned and silent. He sees bodies fall from the sky, and he and his friend run, until they find themselves on a train and headed off the island.
At home, my father frets over the welfare of the children who were in the building that morning, at the on-site day-care facility. When he finds out that all of themâmore than forty infants and toddlersâmade it out alive, his body absorbs the news, releasing tension in the small muscles of his neck. He retreats to the den, draws the curtains, and curls up in the loam of quilts and sheets, further blanketed by the glow of the television. Two days later, he has a stroke.
On my wedding day, my father and I are in the back of the limo, waiting for the ceremony to begin. The night before was the first time heâd seen my mother since their divorce. He doted on her all night, bringing her drinks from the hotel bar and whispering in her ear. He is remarried, but when my mother is in the room, no one else exists.
Outside, a storm rages. Wind shakes the limo. My father tells me heâs seen the face of God. I ask him to tell me another story. I ask him not to say anything that will make me cry. Godâs face, he tells me, is round and full of magnificent, soothing light. He says he spoke to God, that he bargained for his life, offering up his service and devotion, his cigarettes and his alcohol, in exchange for the chance to walk me down the aisle. This is the closest he has ever come to expressing his love.
There are forces at work on my father, forces that are slowly exposing his fragile nucleus. Terror, disease, heartbreak. I have seen him lose everything that matters to him, including my mother. I have seen him kiss the dead. I have yet to see him cry.
He made his deal with God after suffering a massive heart attack, years before the towers and the stroke. The night before his open-heart surgery, he spoke of his father, who was fifty-four when he diedâsame age as my father at the timeâfrom complications during surgery.
The vision came to my father while he was on the operating table. As I sat in the waiting room, I couldnât help but picture him, somewhere beyond the electrified doors, lying there in a cavernous operating theater. I imagined him in his most vulnerable state: his chest cracked wide open, God and steel rebuilding him.
Â
8.
Â
I harvest organs. Iâm taught different methods of immobilization. Cervical dislocationâthe pinning of a mouse across its shoulder blades followed by a quick yank of its tailâis one I wonât try. Ether doesnât require any manipulation of the mouse, but it has been deemed unsafe for researchers. Ketamine is what we use in our lab.
There is a sweet spot in the belly where the needle slides in smoothly, at an angle that doesnât hit an organ and cause the mouse to buck. When
And itâs this that preoccupies me: the connectivity of all living things, past and present. What is passed on? Is this record all that remains after weâre gone, or is there something more?
And can a single narrativeâone single truthâencompass all the forces at work in our lives?
Â
7.
Â
On a Tuesday morning, my father goes to work. He arrives, as he always does, on the E train, which has a stop in the concourse beneath his building. He goes up to the trading floor, boots the computers, and heads to his office in the next building.
He is many floors above the city when a loud seismic boom draws people away from their desks and into doorways. He makes his way to a window of his office building and sees that the adjacent building, its twin, is swaying.
He doesnât know what has happened, but thinking only of the chaos and traffic that will ensue, he and a friend ignore the order to stay put and make the decision to leave. Outside he watches an airplane disappear inside a tower of steel. Around him, clusters of people areâas he isâhands-over-mouth transfixed, stunned and silent. He sees bodies fall from the sky, and he and his friend run, until they find themselves on a train and headed off the island.
At home, my father frets over the welfare of the children who were in the building that morning, at the on-site day-care facility. When he finds out that all of themâmore than forty infants and toddlersâmade it out alive, his body absorbs the news, releasing tension in the small muscles of his neck. He retreats to the den, draws the curtains, and curls up in the loam of quilts and sheets, further blanketed by the glow of the television. Two days later, he has a stroke.
On my wedding day, my father and I are in the back of the limo, waiting for the ceremony to begin. The night before was the first time heâd seen my mother since their divorce. He doted on her all night, bringing her drinks from the hotel bar and whispering in her ear. He is remarried, but when my mother is in the room, no one else exists.
Outside, a storm rages. Wind shakes the limo. My father tells me heâs seen the face of God. I ask him to tell me another story. I ask him not to say anything that will make me cry. Godâs face, he tells me, is round and full of magnificent, soothing light. He says he spoke to God, that he bargained for his life, offering up his service and devotion, his cigarettes and his alcohol, in exchange for the chance to walk me down the aisle. This is the closest he has ever come to expressing his love.
There are forces at work on my father, forces that are slowly exposing his fragile nucleus. Terror, disease, heartbreak. I have seen him lose everything that matters to him, including my mother. I have seen him kiss the dead. I have yet to see him cry.
He made his deal with God after suffering a massive heart attack, years before the towers and the stroke. The night before his open-heart surgery, he spoke of his father, who was fifty-four when he diedâsame age as my father at the timeâfrom complications during surgery.
The vision came to my father while he was on the operating table. As I sat in the waiting room, I couldnât help but picture him, somewhere beyond the electrified doors, lying there in a cavernous operating theater. I imagined him in his most vulnerable state: his chest cracked wide open, God and steel rebuilding him.
Â
8.
Â
I harvest organs. Iâm taught different methods of immobilization. Cervical dislocationâthe pinning of a mouse across its shoulder blades followed by a quick yank of its tailâis one I wonât try. Ether doesnât require any manipulation of the mouse, but it has been deemed unsafe for researchers. Ketamine is what we use in our lab.
There is a sweet spot in the belly where the needle slides in smoothly, at an angle that doesnât hit an organ and cause the mouse to buck. When
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